Joan Miró: The Ladder of Escape @ Tate [Visit 1]
Visiting this made this morning utterly worthwhile and immeasurably inspiring. It's exhausting, unnervingly despondent at points and, for all that, happily provocative. I was accompanied by my best friend, some of whose commentary I'll include in this entry for its trenchant observations. Arriving early meant we were among the first crush to enter the galleries, but that was no surprise given the breadth of publicity that has been spinning around The Ladder of Escape. I took some notes, thought a lot, chattered a little, and lamented at not being able to take photographs or make a video. This aside, I was there, and here is what I have to say about it; I'll use the three questions I've mentioned in earlier posts to structure the entry.
Curation + Implied narrative/s
There are over 160 pieces in the 13 galleries making up The Ladder of Escape which include painting, drawing and sculpture; an array of supports across canvas, velours paper, Masonite and copper; and a technical capability expressed in gouache, tempera, pastel, acrylic and others, which in combination lend the exhibition a palpable energy. Of the possible narratives the curators may have implied in their arrangement of the art works, one must be Miró's development from the quasi-realism of canvases such as The Rut and The Farm, through the surrealism of Catalan Landscape and The Tilled Field to the abstraction of Personages and Mountains (rooms 1, 2 and 4), and ultimately his 'assassination of painting' in the burnt canvases and Fireworks triptych (rooms 11 and 13).
We also become aware of the artist's development beyond the two-dimensional painting or drawing support, in the fifth gallery, as Miró the sculptor emerges with Object of Sunset. Although, this is hardly the enduring memory here since opposite the room's entrance is the beacon-like neon of Still Life with Old Shoe, competing for attention with the 50 lithographs lining the left-hand wall of the galleries' progression (rooms 5 through to 7). It's not that the lithographs are more attractive than Still Life, but rather that the systematic two-row organisation of such a large number of prints means that when one's glance escapes the room's neon focal point it's hard not to be drawn away, ignorant of the room's other offerings. From a crowding or group-movement psychology perspective, this was probably deliberate - it is an encouragement into the larger Room 6 and then on into Room 7; however, it's also distracting.
Upon entry to Room 4, I was taken by the luminescence of the drawings and paintings, which my friend said was enhanced by the dim grey walls and softer lighting. Rooms 5 and 6 are lighter, but not the white of 1, 2 and 3, so there's an undeniably emotional experience to the exhibition as one advances through it; this has been engineered by its curators. By the time one reaches the darker grey of Room 7 (where the Constellations are) one has grown accustomed to the unease brought about by shifting lights and tones in addition to the art works, which makes more evocative the political aspects of Miró's work that journalists and critics have been eager to identify. The Ladder of Escape in this way is not an exhibition of objects, a series of debatable prettinesses, but the exposition of a chronicle emanating from one man speaking for many.
Confinement seems certain to be another story the curating team are eager to tell. For all the galleries flow one into the other, the exhibition is a journey through distinct spaces or demarcated areas of confinement. Compare rooms 8 and 9, for instance, separated only by two short partition walls aside a vast aperture that gives directly on to the central display of sculptures in front of the sizable Message from a Friend. The rooms are together, yet Room 8 with its three lone canvases stands apart from the space of Room 9. Where for us the sense of confinement was most pronounced were the purpose-built octagonal galleries 10 and 12 (for the four horizontal triptychs). My friend and I were both grateful that the sequence of these rooms was not reversed, since one feels more prepared for the desolation of triptychs Painting on a White Background for the Cell of a Recluse and The Hope of a Condemned Man after the vibrancy of the Blue and Mural Painting series. It was after we'd visited the second cell (Room 12) that my friend commented that the relative smallness of the space had enhanced the vastness of the paintings; moreover, given the works' size and popularity, the one single bench in each room (all the spaces allow) generated a sense of humility, insignificance and isolation, as visitors shuffled in, around and out.
Learning
Learning tends to be a willing experience - being receptive to new ideas and development is impeded by a lack of motivation - yet even the most reluctant visitor would find it difficult to wander through The Ladder of Escape picking up nothing. This isn't because there's a guide booklet, the works are labelled, and the rooms are numbered and introduced by curatorial blurb, but because the contents of the show are arresting. Moreover, the feeling of confinement in the galleries engendered by the art works and the complex and deliberate layout, slows one down and makes the exhibition a project or an area for contemplation that must be 'worked out of', 'escaped from'. I don't say this merely to play with the metaphor of the show's title, but because at this stage of my understanding I cannot help feeling that my emotional participation in the exhibition was involuntary and had designedly be drawn out of me to make the experience show me something.
Moving away from theoretical postulations, however, The Ladder of Escape teaches other things. The diversity and skill of Miró is unmissable. This in turn demonstrates the infinitude of artistic production. Budding curators or museum critics come to appreciate the effects of colour and geometry on visitor reception. And anyone in the galleries when we were there could see that the museum space has become an active environment populated by more than silent observers: children in front of the lithographs made their own doodles; an art student took notes; a mother pushed a buggy around, pausing to engage its infant passenger in some of the more brightly coloured works; strangers started up conversations; and tens of others were in the space together for whatever reasons.
Miró@Tate / Twombly@Tate
The experience of Miró was entirely different from that of Twombly in Cycles and Seasons (Tate 2008). Unfortunately I didn't make more of a record of my visits to the latter exhibition, so I must rely on memory, but I don't recall its being as emotional as The Ladder of Escape. Of course the artists are different and their oeuvres stand apart, but I think that the Miró brought together the curatorial space and the curated artifacts in a more harmonious way. Perhaps I'll be able to write about this better when I've thought about it more. As a final comment at this point, the Fireworks triptych which closes the exhibition is perhaps as showstopping as the finale to Twombly, which was the Bacchus series, because both works required great effort, but beyond this, I don't see any more intersection between the two right now. Please bear with me.
Some journalists criticised the show for a lack of accessibility and requiring prior knowledge of Miró, instead of opening up his art to a wider, 'lay' audience. Perhaps this is true for some, but I'd be interested to hear why. As I intended to visit the exhibition more than once, I took advantage of being able to be selective about today's experience and I deliberately focused my appraisal through three questions, so it didn't matter greatly that I read the accompanying information to the art works. Nonethess I was fully able to engage with the galleries, which isn't because I'm informed about Miró since today's visit was my first real learning experience about the artist. My friend - whose knowledge was similar to mine - enjoyed the visit immensely and it was he who helped me to perceive Miró's transition from painting to sculpture with the burnt canvases, and to appreciate the artist's use of particular motifs to depict certain subjects. 'Lay spectators', it seems, are able to derive much from Ladder. Undoubtedly the show requires thought, but it does not ask for expertise and it isn't unnecessarily erudite or inscrutable. It's a sad experience because Miró saw and chose to depict the sadness of his times, and it's exhausting - in these respects it is demanding - but it is not closed to anyone.
Other responses to the exhibition will be going on the Tate's Miró blog at http://blog.tate.org.uk/?p=4885
Curation + Implied narrative/s
There are over 160 pieces in the 13 galleries making up The Ladder of Escape which include painting, drawing and sculpture; an array of supports across canvas, velours paper, Masonite and copper; and a technical capability expressed in gouache, tempera, pastel, acrylic and others, which in combination lend the exhibition a palpable energy. Of the possible narratives the curators may have implied in their arrangement of the art works, one must be Miró's development from the quasi-realism of canvases such as The Rut and The Farm, through the surrealism of Catalan Landscape and The Tilled Field to the abstraction of Personages and Mountains (rooms 1, 2 and 4), and ultimately his 'assassination of painting' in the burnt canvases and Fireworks triptych (rooms 11 and 13).
We also become aware of the artist's development beyond the two-dimensional painting or drawing support, in the fifth gallery, as Miró the sculptor emerges with Object of Sunset. Although, this is hardly the enduring memory here since opposite the room's entrance is the beacon-like neon of Still Life with Old Shoe, competing for attention with the 50 lithographs lining the left-hand wall of the galleries' progression (rooms 5 through to 7). It's not that the lithographs are more attractive than Still Life, but rather that the systematic two-row organisation of such a large number of prints means that when one's glance escapes the room's neon focal point it's hard not to be drawn away, ignorant of the room's other offerings. From a crowding or group-movement psychology perspective, this was probably deliberate - it is an encouragement into the larger Room 6 and then on into Room 7; however, it's also distracting.
Upon entry to Room 4, I was taken by the luminescence of the drawings and paintings, which my friend said was enhanced by the dim grey walls and softer lighting. Rooms 5 and 6 are lighter, but not the white of 1, 2 and 3, so there's an undeniably emotional experience to the exhibition as one advances through it; this has been engineered by its curators. By the time one reaches the darker grey of Room 7 (where the Constellations are) one has grown accustomed to the unease brought about by shifting lights and tones in addition to the art works, which makes more evocative the political aspects of Miró's work that journalists and critics have been eager to identify. The Ladder of Escape in this way is not an exhibition of objects, a series of debatable prettinesses, but the exposition of a chronicle emanating from one man speaking for many.
Confinement seems certain to be another story the curating team are eager to tell. For all the galleries flow one into the other, the exhibition is a journey through distinct spaces or demarcated areas of confinement. Compare rooms 8 and 9, for instance, separated only by two short partition walls aside a vast aperture that gives directly on to the central display of sculptures in front of the sizable Message from a Friend. The rooms are together, yet Room 8 with its three lone canvases stands apart from the space of Room 9. Where for us the sense of confinement was most pronounced were the purpose-built octagonal galleries 10 and 12 (for the four horizontal triptychs). My friend and I were both grateful that the sequence of these rooms was not reversed, since one feels more prepared for the desolation of triptychs Painting on a White Background for the Cell of a Recluse and The Hope of a Condemned Man after the vibrancy of the Blue and Mural Painting series. It was after we'd visited the second cell (Room 12) that my friend commented that the relative smallness of the space had enhanced the vastness of the paintings; moreover, given the works' size and popularity, the one single bench in each room (all the spaces allow) generated a sense of humility, insignificance and isolation, as visitors shuffled in, around and out.
Learning
Learning tends to be a willing experience - being receptive to new ideas and development is impeded by a lack of motivation - yet even the most reluctant visitor would find it difficult to wander through The Ladder of Escape picking up nothing. This isn't because there's a guide booklet, the works are labelled, and the rooms are numbered and introduced by curatorial blurb, but because the contents of the show are arresting. Moreover, the feeling of confinement in the galleries engendered by the art works and the complex and deliberate layout, slows one down and makes the exhibition a project or an area for contemplation that must be 'worked out of', 'escaped from'. I don't say this merely to play with the metaphor of the show's title, but because at this stage of my understanding I cannot help feeling that my emotional participation in the exhibition was involuntary and had designedly be drawn out of me to make the experience show me something.
Moving away from theoretical postulations, however, The Ladder of Escape teaches other things. The diversity and skill of Miró is unmissable. This in turn demonstrates the infinitude of artistic production. Budding curators or museum critics come to appreciate the effects of colour and geometry on visitor reception. And anyone in the galleries when we were there could see that the museum space has become an active environment populated by more than silent observers: children in front of the lithographs made their own doodles; an art student took notes; a mother pushed a buggy around, pausing to engage its infant passenger in some of the more brightly coloured works; strangers started up conversations; and tens of others were in the space together for whatever reasons.
Miró@Tate / Twombly@Tate
The experience of Miró was entirely different from that of Twombly in Cycles and Seasons (Tate 2008). Unfortunately I didn't make more of a record of my visits to the latter exhibition, so I must rely on memory, but I don't recall its being as emotional as The Ladder of Escape. Of course the artists are different and their oeuvres stand apart, but I think that the Miró brought together the curatorial space and the curated artifacts in a more harmonious way. Perhaps I'll be able to write about this better when I've thought about it more. As a final comment at this point, the Fireworks triptych which closes the exhibition is perhaps as showstopping as the finale to Twombly, which was the Bacchus series, because both works required great effort, but beyond this, I don't see any more intersection between the two right now. Please bear with me.
+
Some journalists criticised the show for a lack of accessibility and requiring prior knowledge of Miró, instead of opening up his art to a wider, 'lay' audience. Perhaps this is true for some, but I'd be interested to hear why. As I intended to visit the exhibition more than once, I took advantage of being able to be selective about today's experience and I deliberately focused my appraisal through three questions, so it didn't matter greatly that I read the accompanying information to the art works. Nonethess I was fully able to engage with the galleries, which isn't because I'm informed about Miró since today's visit was my first real learning experience about the artist. My friend - whose knowledge was similar to mine - enjoyed the visit immensely and it was he who helped me to perceive Miró's transition from painting to sculpture with the burnt canvases, and to appreciate the artist's use of particular motifs to depict certain subjects. 'Lay spectators', it seems, are able to derive much from Ladder. Undoubtedly the show requires thought, but it does not ask for expertise and it isn't unnecessarily erudite or inscrutable. It's a sad experience because Miró saw and chose to depict the sadness of his times, and it's exhausting - in these respects it is demanding - but it is not closed to anyone.
Other responses to the exhibition will be going on the Tate's Miró blog at http://blog.tate.org.uk/?p=4885
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